


Thief for a Day

by Ehtar



Category: Sly Cooper (Video Games)
Genre: Banter, Canon-Typical Violence, Cooper Gang Member Carmelita Fox, F/M, Gen, Hypnotism, Mild torture, Morally Questionable Behavior, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:21:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29108484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ehtar/pseuds/Ehtar
Summary: Stealing a key item from a London crime lord has Sly and the gang hiding out in Sin City, but will anywhere be far enough? And who’s swinging through the back streets of Las Vegas with Sly?Originally posted to FFnet: October 18, 2005 - October 21, 2006
Relationships: Sly Cooper/Carmelita Fox
Kudos: 2





	1. Prelude

The room was very quiet, and lit only with a few lights hidden behind plants in the corners of the room. Had the room been lit properly, it would have revealed the room to be amazingly plush and comfortable. It was technically a private room, but it had enough sofas and chairs to accommodate a small party. The mini bar set in one wall furthered this impression. Paintings set on the walls depicted scenes from a desert setting: flat, sandy plains with a scattering of brush, rolling hills that gradually grew into mountains, and startling sky views were the theme.

Carefully and quietly, a figure made its way to the only picture that had something besides blank nature scenes. In this picture, standing next to a slowly shrinking pool of water, stood a scraggly pack of jackals. It might have passed as just another painting, but this was a crime lord’s private room, and anything even slightly out of the ordinary perked this intruder’s interest.

The shadow crept to the painting and carefully lifted it from its wall hook. Behind the painting there was nothing but blank wall.

The thief was not disappointed. He was too clever to fall for such a ruse. Running his fingers over the section of wall revealed by the painting, both ears and tail twitched. In the main part of the same building music was blaring, so he could make as much noise as he pleased and not be found out. He restrained himself, though; bad habits developed quickly, after all.

The tail twitched again as a slight pop and sigh sounded in the room. The source became apparent as a section of the wall only slightly smaller than the painting came away. The pop and sigh had resulted from removing the piece because it had fit so tightly as to create a seal.

Behind the wall was a standard safe, although a high quality one. With one furry ear pressed against the safe door, he began turning the wheel to open it.

One click.

Some more turning, a second click.

The third click came, and now it was time for a test. This safe was also equipped with a key lock. A few days ago the thief had lifted the key for it, and then promptly returned it… after a quick mold was cast. Now it was time to see if the forged key was as good as the original.

It slid in smoothly, and with a final little _click_ , the safe was open.

Inside there were several little boxes, a medium sized briefcase, and a laptop computer. The boxes all held precious stones, cut and polished, the briefcase held quite a lot of coins, and the laptop most likely held legal documents. The thief swiped them all.

In place of the loot he took he placed his calling card: a stylized raccoon face. _Sly Cooper._


	2. Hunters

Inspector Carmelita Fox tried hard not to grind her teeth in frustration. It was a bad habit she had developed as a cub, and she didn’t want to pay the dental bills. It was hard, though, not to grind as she listened to the incoming reports on a local, high profile robbery.

There could be no question as to who had robbed the tight security home, even though the Inspector had only heard second-hand reports so far. It had to have been Sly Cooper and his gang. But it wasn’t the who that did the robbing that was the problem, it was the who that was robbed. It was none other than a Mr. P. T. Bull, the underdog of London. To the public face he was a fairly respectable business dog, if a bit of a risk taker, and active in local interests. London police and Interpol both knew him as an under handed, backstabbing criminal, whose only real interest in public affairs was how it affected his crime/drug web. He was careful to keep up a façade of innocence, but wasn’t above a convoluted killing or two to keep the competition and his own people in line. The boys in blue had been trying to nail his hide for months.

And now this. The Cooper Gang had decided to throw their collective hat into the ring. Now it was pretty much up to Carmelita to take sides. Normally there wasn’t a problem, the law and personal preference had her side against Cooper. But with this case there was room to maneuver. She could go after Cooper as per usual and basically be working on behalf of Mr. Bull, but that rubbed her fur the wrong way. Or, she could take the opportunity provided by Cooper and his gang and try her chances at prosecuting P. T. Bull. But doing that, taking on P. T., it would feel like admitting Sly Cooper was right, and that just went against the grain for Inspector Fox.

She ground her teeth again with a tiny growl. Damn Cooper for this impossible position! He just waltzed into whatever safe he felt like and to hell with the consequences. Cooper and his little friends made twice as much work for the blues with any one hit than any other band. She, on the other hand, had rules, procedure to follow. If she didn’t follow that procedure in capturing the bad guys, then all of her efforts would be wasted.

Carmelita sighed and switched off her radio, she knew what would be coming in after awhile, and it wouldn’t help her decision. This had been one of Sly’s sneakier breaks, so there were only a few missing items besides those from the safe, and a minimum of knocked out guards. Most disappointing had been the lack of anything useful to use against P. T. when the blues had gone in to investigate. It was all terribly frustrating.

Her dubious reverie was interrupted by an officer bursting into her office. “I’m sorry, Detective,” he stammered before she could protest, “but something just came in from Nevada.”

“Something useful to this case, I hope,” Fox muttered.

The officer, being a bloodhound with exceptional hearing, caught the remark, “Yes, ma’am!”

Carmelita’s nose came up quickly, “Sly Cooper?”

“Yes, Detective. The report just came in from the Elephant Head Casino in Las Vegas.”

“Las Veg-- oh, no,” she leaned back in her chair, a hand over her eyes. She could just imagine Cooper and his gang in Las Vegas, and it wasn’t exactly a comforting image. The raccoon prince of thieves loose in Sin City – what could be worse?

—•—

PT glared down at the head of security from his chair. It wasn’t that the guard was sitting, or particularly short, but that PT was incredibly tall, even when sitting. At 7’ 2”, he towered over associates and enemies alike, and rarely had to use muscle to intimidate either. His stature convinced many a man to agree with him. It was an arrangement that worked well for PT. He appreciated order, especially where his business ventures were concerned. More than anything else, he hated messes or unexpected turns. Everything had to carefully planned and then executed in PT’s world, nothing of importance could be spontaneous. Which was why he was in the middle of disciplining his head of security. This was the man that had been in charge when his home had been robbed. _His_ home! It had been invaded and burgled under his nose! And this pathetic wimp was the one responsible.

PT let the silence hang, furthering the poor guard’s discomfort. It was well known at the guard house that unpleasant things tended to happen to those who failed Mr. Bull, and there was no one else in the darkened room beside him and his irate employer. Lacking the glands to truly sweat, the guard began to pant, and the palms of his hands began to itch.

Finally, PT leaned forward and narrowed his eyes, “12:45 am. Vault number four. Does that ring a bell, Wood?”

“Yes, sir!” Wood said crisply. Abject terror or not, it was best to be quick and truthful with Mr. Bull.

“Good,” PT said with a pleasant smile, “I’m glad to know that it hasn’t completely escaped your memory. Do you remember what was _in_ vault number four?”

Wood fidgeted. Of course he knew what was in it, as head of security he had the check on some vaults to make sure they still held what they were supposed to.

“Note,” PT suddenly growled, “that I say _was_ because it is not there anymore!”

The guard began to tremble, “I’m sorry, PT, I--“

He was cut off as the towering bulldog suddenly stood and cuffed him. “Sorry?!” he raged, “Do you think ‘sorry’ will bring back those documents?!”

From his position on the ground, the guard whimpered, ears clamped to the sides of his head and tail tucked between his legs.

“Do you even know what kind of information was on that computer?” PT continued, ignoring Wood’s whines, “If the thieves who stole it manage to decrypt it, they’ll wield enormous power over me! ME!”

It was unacceptable, PT thought furiously. Those thieves had invaded his personal home and stolen the one thing that could ruin him. And if the thieves didn’t crack the code, but the cops caught them and recovered the stolen items, the nosey blues would find an excuse to hold onto his personal computer until they learned all its secrets.

No, he would have to retrieve the laptop himself. He would find Sly Cooper and his friends and make them regret they ever set foot in his home.


	3. Hunted

Sly screamed at the top of his lungs and clutched his cane reflexively. His heart was beating so fast it felt as though it would burst from his chest. He fought to yell and breathe at the same time through a throat that was constricted in terror. His eyes watered as he plummeted in semi-freefall, then his stomach dropped out as his momentum suddenly went from straight down to straight up.

Wheels rattled and Sly whooped even louder as the tracks went up, up, and up until they were upside down, then going down again, then they finally leveled out, creating an entire loop-to-loop. Sly barely had time to inhale before the roller coaster went into a tight cobra roll, once again plummeting to the ground.

By the time the coaster came to a stop, Sly was thoroughly dizzy, both from the coaster itself and from oxygen deprivation. Weaving slightly, he made his way to the back of the train to find the friend he had dragged with him on this excursion. In the very last car sat a large, pink hippopotamus with goggles on. He appeared frozen in place, but as Sly approached, he jumped out, shouting, “That was awesome, Sly! Let’s find one that does ten of those corkscrew things!”

Sly laughed at Murray’s enthusiasm. Anything with speed or destruction involved was likely to be a sure thing for the hippo, “Sure, bud, but next time, try not to grip the bar so tight.”

He pointed at the restraint bar of Murray’s car, which instead of being a straight rod of metal, was now bent and twisted in several places. Murray blushed, “Yeah, well, that first drop is really freaky.”

The comm. units in their ears hissed, then cleared with the slightly nasal voice of their third and final gang member, “I suggest that you two get back to the van, rather than go on another nauseating roller coaster.”

“Aw, c’mon, Bentley,” Sly wheedled into the comm. receiver, “what’s the point of coming to Las Vegas if we can’t enjoy it a little?”

“Yeah, Bentley,” Murray chimed eagerly, “why don’t you come out and try this? It’s like grabbing onto the back of a speeding truck while crashing through the Grand Canyon!”

“Uh… tempting… and disturbingly vivid. But really guys, we’re supposed to be lying low after that heist in London.”

“And we are,” Sly said. He grabbed Murray by his shirt front and starting leading him to an even bigger coaster. If Bentley was going to drag them back to the van, then they might be able to get in one more ride. Bentley was a bookworm – or turtle, as the case may be – and didn’t appreciate thrill rides as much as Sly and Murray did. And talking to an unseen third person was less obvious to others when they were walking. “Who would come to Las Vegas and not hit every piece of entertainment here?”

“People who sleep once in awhile?” Bentley suggested.

Sly chuckled. Out of the three of them, Bentley had taken to a nocturnal schedule the worst, and he stuck to his new set hours pretty strictly. Fluctuations tended to make him crabby. “Hey, how ‘bout we head for Treasure Island after this coaster?”

The turtle groaned, “Sly, what is it with you and pirates?”

Instead of answering, Sly said, “Why don’t we steal the pirate ship prop?”

“What?!”

Sly dodged a small group of giggling, teenaged girls taking up the sidewalk. They looked about to be in college, and were probably enjoying their summer with a vacation away from parents. They were certainly enjoying themselves enough to not notice other pedestrians. “Well,” he said into the comm., “what are the odds we’d ever steal a real one?”

“Not very good,” Bentley agreed reluctantly, “but we’re not stealing a fake one, either!”

“Bentley, can’t you loosen up a bit?” He took a hard left into the New York, New York building. Seeing how crowded it was, he pushed Murray in front to act as a makeshift plow.

Over the comm., Bentley sighed, “Maybe you’re right, Sly. Maybe I should relax a little.”

Sly grinned, “Now you’re talkin’!”

“I mean, it’s not like we’ve stolen anything _important_ recently. Nothing that anyone would come and _look_ for us for.”

Sly and Murray made it to the New York, New York coaster line, which was remarkably short. With no entry fees to pay to ride Vegas coasters, people could ride them whenever they wanted, which usually meant short or no lines. Sly spoke more quietly into the comm. set, “You haven’t even broken the encryption on that thing yet. For all we know, that’s just where the guy keeps his laundry bills and grocery lists.”

“I find that highly unlikely, seeing as how it had been carefully locked in a high security vault.”

“You never know with these uppity types. They might be embarrassed if anyone found out that they go through a pound of Miss Persnickety’s caramelized almond pops every week.”

There was a pause over the comm., then, “We’re straying from the point of this conversation, which is: _would you and Murray please get your tails back to the van?!_ ”

“Alright, alright…” The cars rattled down the track and stopped in front of Sly and Murray, “Right after this last coaster!” Sly jumped in and brought down the restraint rail. Behind him he could hear Murray pumping himself up for the coming adrenaline rush.

As the cars began their steady climb, neither of the coaster fiends heard Bentley’s disgusted sigh.

—•—

The van was hidden on a back street off of the Strip, where there were a surprising number of cheap steak houses. At the moment, the van was parked right by one of Murray’s favorites.

Inside the van, Bentley was briefing Sly on a small, local job. “Just because we’re lying low doesn’t mean we can’t liberate a few casinos of excess cash,” he’d said. What had caught Bentley’s interest was one of the newer casinos on the Strip, noteworthy because it had been an instant success and its owner was practically unknown in the business. What was known was that one of his previous attempts to set up a much smaller casino had been a complete failure. Why this one was making so much money was a mystery to the average outsider. It was easy to understand, however, when you knew two simple facts. One: the casino cheated. A lot. More than was usual for casinos. And two: the machines all played a semi-hypnotic tune that called players back, creating compulsive gamblers out of passer by.

“For a casino, there’s hardly any security worth mentioning,” Bentley was finishing, “Maybe a laser barrier or two and a couple guards. This should be a cakewalk!”

Sly was examining the photos Bentley had hacked out of the casino’s security systems. It _was_ amazingly open, and didn’t seem to have any kind of theme, like most of the casinos in Las Vegas. The security wasn’t what was worrying him. “What about that hypnotic music? Won’t that just make me start gambling as soon as I step in?”

“Normally it would take a few minutes for the effects to really set in, and you should be in and out fairly quickly. However,” he reached under the table and brought out a pair of small, metallic gizmos, “I’ve made these. They’ll broadcast on a sub-audible frequency and counteract the hypnotic hum in the casino.” He handed them to Sly, who carefully set them inside his ears. “Unfortunately, it will mean that we can’t communicate over the comm. units. You’ll be completely on your own for this one, Sly.”

Sly shrugged, adjusting the left unit, “Like you said, it should be a cakewalk.” He grabbed his cane on the way out of the van, calling over his shoulder, “You’d almost think we were on vacation or something!”

He began making his way to the targeted casino, using the highly varied rooftops found in Vegas. It was quite pretty, looking on the city from above. The towering hotels cut a range of silhouettes in the skyline – from the wedge of the Luxor, to the big-top of Circus Circus, to the fortress of the Excalibur. Looking straight down onto the Strip, the view reminded Sly of a river, a river beset by hundreds of thousands of fireflies. A myriad of people cast tiny shadows in the neon sea. Paris was the city of lights, and New York the city that never sleeps, but here they seemed to converge. Despite the light and staggering number of people, Sly felt he could relax a little. The distractions of the city provided more cover than mere shadows could have offered him.

Reaching the casino, he entered through a top floor window – which was conveniently unlocked. Who would expect an intruder fifteen floors up? Landing softly in the plush carpet, Sly crouched in the shadows, listening. As his eyes adjusted, he could see that this was one of the hotel rooms, and from the lack of sound, unoccupied. He made his way to the door, careful to avoid knocking over anything. The hallway was long, and deserted. He ducked back inside in room to throw on a jacket over his normal blue shirt, then headed downstairs.

This was one of the few times that Sly would allow himself to be seen while on the job, but it was necessary. The room that had the vault he wanted was at the back of the casino itself, and the only way to get to the room was to walk through the casino – which was sure to be packed. The room would be guarded by a pair of flunkies. To get past them, he intended to create a distraction.

The casino was loud, bright, and full of patrons – which was expected of a Las Vegas casino. What was out of the ordinary were the crazed looks on the faces of the people sitting at all of the machines. The average slots player would have a calm, almost tired look about them. Wide eyes and violent handle pulls were a little odd. Weaving his way through the people and machines, always being careful to show at least polite interest for the benefit of any observers, he made his way to the back room. Sure enough, there were two burly guards standing on either side of it. Very subtle.

Avoiding eye contact with the guards, he stopped by a particularly large and gaudy one-armed bandit. Pretending to examine the particulars of the machine, he leaned in close and placed his right hand on the side for support. When he stood and left the machine, even one of the hawk-eyed guards would have been hard pressed to tell the difference between the original symbols decorating the sides and the newly deposited one.

Near the heavily guarded door was a bar, and Sly headed for it. Technically he was still too young to drink, (or gamble), but he wasn’t thirsty. Sly sat quietly, watching the gamblers until the barman started approaching. When he was just on the verge of either asking what he wanted to drink or for ID, Sly pressed a tiny button in the palm of his glove.

Immediately there was chaos as revelers were abruptly in the center of a cloud of smoke. The sounds of people asking where their friends were, where the smoke had come from, and most importantly, where the coin slot on their machines were, all came from the miasma. A few coughing patrons and waitresses stumbled out and collapsed, but many of the hypnotized gamblers stubbornly stayed with their machines of choice. The guards looked up, but didn’t leave their posts. Sly didn’t care. He had already slipped through an air vent behind the counter that the barman had abandoned to help the stunned people.

The vent twisted around inside the wall, which made maneuvering his cane an interesting challenge. Eventually, with a few unusual contortions, he came out inside the guarded room. The lights were on, but a swift survey of the room revealed no surprise guards. There was a bank of monitors for various parts of the casino on one wall behind a desk, a barred window overlooking the fountains outside, and a few other, smaller pieces of furniture. Most importantly, however, was the safe, tucked into a corner and nestled in a tangle of lasers. A quick pick of the vault, an escape out of the ceiling vent leading to the hotel floors, and home free to the van. It was so easy it was almost boring.

The lasers were easy enough to avoid for someone who was used to picking locks from odd positions. The vault opened with a pop, and Sly swiped the contents – two small, heavy bags that _clinked_ musically when moved, and left behind his calling card. Despite what Bentley said about laying low, not leaving behind a calling card would lack the style that made Sly a true Cooper. If there was anything that Sly loved more than gold, it was doing things with style. Standing on top of the vault, he reached the escape vent and scrabbled up. It came out in an upstairs hallway, and Sly made for the window overlooking the Strip.

Just outside the window was a flagpole, which he used to spring up to the roof. It didn’t completely work, he still had to climb up the side of the building the last few floors using his cane, but it saved a little bit of time. On the roof, Sly shucked the tourist jacket and readjusted his shirt and cap. It was hot enough in casinos without having to look like a tourist with bad dress sense. He was just beginning the long trek back to the van when a voice behind him shouted, “Freeze!”


	4. At a Show

Sly didn’t freeze, but whipped around to find his favorite Interpol policewoman staring him down through a shock pistol’s sights. Carmelita Montoya Fox. Desert winds ruffled her fur and made her tail sway gently behind her, but her eyes betrayed no softness. They were hard and sharp, almost glowing in the lights of the city. She had followed him from England to Las Vegas in record time. Straight off the plane, too, from the looks of it. As Sly continued to watch her, he noticed she still had a slightly hazy, stressed-out look. Relaxing his posture, Sly grinned, both ears facing full front, “Just when Vegas seems to be losing its luster, Detective, you arrive and outshine every light.”

Carmelita smirked, her pistol never wavering, “And you’re still playing the charming jewel thief, I see,” she replied. “Return what you’ve stolen, and maybe the courts will go a little easier on you.”

“Charming?” Sly feigned surprise, “Why, Inspector, I never knew you noticed.” Very slowly, Sly began sliding his foot behind him and slightly to the side. When the time came to end this conversation, it would happen very quickly.

“I happen to have your personal file memorized, Cooper,” Carmelita was saying, “all the way down to your hat size.”

“Impressive,” Sly said, readjusting the grip on his cane.

“Standard,” Carmelita corrected. Her already rigid stance seemed to tighten even further, and the pistol shifted just slightly, getting a better bearing on Sly, “And once those goods are back where they belong, we’re going to have a little chat about a certain Mr. Bull and his now empty vault.”

_Typical,_ Sly thought. As much as Carmelita liked to think her world was in the absolutes of black and white, whenever she came after him she was placing herself on the fence of the law. How could she be completely on the law’s side, when she was protecting criminals Sly stole from? It was something of a paradox for the straight lace policewoman. Sly’s legs tensed underneath him, and his toes dug into the roof for extra traction, ready to spring away. “Sorry, Carmelita, but I’ll have to take a rain check on that date. The night life of Vegas calls.” With that, Sly leapt backwards and twisted in midair, landing in a sprint. He had barely taken two steps before he heard the unmistakable ZZZZAP! of the shock pistol. He sprang to the side, barely avoiding getting hit full-on with the paralyzing blast. She was getting faster with that thing, and her aim was improving.

It was then that Sly realized an interesting problem: As beautiful as the eclectic mix of architecture was in Sin City, it made quick getaways tricky. Going from a building that was 15+ stories to one that was only three wasn’t too much of a problem with a paraglider, but going back again was neigh impossible to do quickly. After two more close calls from the pistol and nearly plummeting off of one of the buildings, Sly decided to take the chase down to the streets. Carmelita was less likely to shoot at him if there were pedestrians added to the mix. He landed on the well-lit sidewalks and kept running, his newly acquired loot jangling merrily the whole way. Even so late at night, there were still plenty of people enjoying all that Las Vegas had to offer, which gave Sly ample cover. Despite the people, though, Carmelita still managed to get off a few shots, occasionally yelling ‘Freeze!’ at Sly or ‘Get down!’ to the crowds. Neither paid her any attention.

When one of her shots singed his tail he decided that it was time to switch tactics again. At the nearest casino/hotel he could find, Sly ducked inside. He went by the sign quickly, but he thought it said _Atlantis_. The inside corroborated the fleeting name, the décor including huge façades of ruined palaces and a large shark tank wrapped around the perimeter of the casino. Thankfully, this building also had an abundance of patrons.

As Sly wove around the crowded building, he noticed that Carmelita had opted not to shoot inside – at least until she had a sure shot. She was also, however, keeping good track of him. “Give it up, Cooper!” she shouted over the noise of the casino, “You can’t run forever!”

Sly shot a quick grin over his shoulder, “Maybe not, but I can sure try!” He bent over further into his sprint, pouring on the speed. Behind him, he thought he could hear Carmelita cursing faintly.

Even with Sly’s increased pace, the Inspector managed to keep up. He was impressed with her determination, and at the same time cursed the extra weight he had to carry. Without it, and the extra bulk it added to his frame, he probably would have been able slip out from under her radar by now. On the second time circling the huge room, Sly noticed a set of doors leading to the casino’s theater. From the looks of it, the show was on and the doors miraculously unguarded. Sly took the opportunity presented and slipped inside.

Behind the doors the noise abruptly died away, leaving a slight ringing in Sly’s ears. The only source of light came from the stage, casting the entire audience in darkness. That suited him just fine. Vegas was an unusually bright city, day or night, and it was comforting to have the concealing shadows back. No one had noticed his hurried entrance, so he grabbed onto a pipe right by the door with his cane and began climbing upward into the lights.

Balancing himself in the cross bars, he watched as Carmelita came in, only a few seconds behind him. She paused, letting her eyes adjust to the dramatic change in light, and quickly looked from side to side for her quarry. Sly noted with amusement that she neglected to look up. Some things never changed. Not finding the raccoon in plain sight, she began searching the rows for him, pistol at the ready. The audience was so enthralled by the show, they hardly noticed.

Seeing that Carmelita wasn’t going to look where he was anytime soon, Sly looked toward the stage. Scattered around the floor were what looked to him like a magician’s props: A large, upright box, a small table scattered with cards, three large hanging hoops, and more. There were only three people on stage: two were feline women in colorful, scanty – and eye catching – attire, and the third Sly assumed was the magician. It was a fairly young male frilled lizard, dressed in a very overdone outfit made up of a yellow silk shirt, blue velvet vest, large, baggy red pants made of satin, and blue, curly toed shoes. His frill, which was lowered around his shoulders, had many golden bangles and hoops hanging from the fleshy edge like ear rings. At the moment, he was finishing up a trick that made it look like a knife was passing harmlessly through his arm. The audience was impressed, but from Sly’s vantage point, he could see the mirrors.

“Thank you, thank you,” the magician said was a flourishing bow to the applause. Rings on every finger glinted in the stage lights. “And for my final performance, I, the Great Llazarrad, shall need a volunteer.”

Immediately, nearly every hand in the house was in the air, fingers wriggling to get more attention. “The Great Llazarrad” held his chin in mock contemplation, scanning the audience for a suitable volunteer. After a moment, he pointed into the audience dramatically, “That young lady, there!”

Several spotlights swam around the room and converged on Carmelita, who was still searching the seats for Sly. When the lights came on her, she straightened and swung her pistol around in surprise, searching for the light bearing assailant, but it was obvious that the sudden brightness had dazed her. Almost instantly, the two assistants were on Carmelita, one deftly taking her shock pistol and the other steering her towards the stage. Sly was impressed, he had never seen anyone actually get the pistol out of her hands before.

“Look at that, ladies and gentlemen,” Llazarrad was saying as his assistants led the stunned Detective up the stairs, “this young lady was so eager, she started coming up on stage by herself!”

There was a smattering of chuckles from the audience as Carmelita was towed into the center of the stage. In the center, the assistants supported her by both elbows, but Carmelita was finally starting to become aware of where she was, and struggled slightly.

Llazarrad saw her resistance and misinterpreted it, “Now, now, my dear, no reason to feel nervous. I am a professional.”

On the word ‘professional’, obviously a cue word, the lights dimmed and were replaced by red lighting that wobbled slightly. Sly, being at the same level as the lights, saw that the lights had panes of warped plastic rotating in front of them, which distorted the light and made it swim. Back on stage, Carmelita was just getting ready to stop the show when the magician spread his frill.

Carmelita stopped. She stared.

Sly could hardly blame her, the entire audience had gone quiet. The magician’s frill spread above and below his face, the bangles and rings swaying and glinting strangely in the red, warbling light. But that wasn’t what made everyone stare. More interesting than the bangles was the pattern Llazarrad had painted on his frill. In white paint, which showed up starkly on his green scales, were swirling patterns and flowing letters in several languages. One, Sly was fairly certain, was Sanskrit, and another looked like it might be a form of Korean, but he couldn’t read any of it. Carefully avoiding the frill, Llazarrad firmly placed a tiny red jewel between his eyes. The entire effect was somewhere between creepy and comical.

“Now,” the magician said, “just relax, my dear, this won’t take a moment.”

Carmelita inhaled mightily, raising her hand. In a voice that carried to the farthest corners of the house, she started, “I’m going to have to--“ and then froze, leaving her hand in the air.

The Great Llazarrad, ignoring her loud protests, had simultaneously begun weaving his head in circles, waving his frill in a tiny, flowing wave, and humming a sonorous tune. The frill pattern, with the combination of light and movements, seemed to wriggle and dance on its own, and hardly seemed to even be a part of the magician anymore. It was almost difficult to watch, it had a dizzying effect. He could only imagine what Carmelita was seeing, standing right in front of him. The tune he was humming was also strange. It made Sly sleepy, making it hard to keep his balance in the lights, much less concentrate on Llazarrad and Carmelita. Shaking his head, he forced himself to ignore the sound and watch.

Carmelita was so entranced by Llazarrad that the assistants were nearly supporting her full weight. She slumped into them, her entire face slack and eyes unfocused, but still watching the magician’s display. The hand she had raised dropped heavily back to her side. With a final, sharp click of the magician’s tongue, the Inspector straightened, and the assistants released their grips. Llazarrad approached her and waved a hand in front of her face; there was no reaction, her eyes didn’t even flicker.

Llazarrad turned back to the audience, “And now, ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a hushed voice, “I will attempt to transform this young lady into a variety of strange beings. I ask that no one be shocked at her appearance, should I be successful.” He turned to the entranced Inspector, and the audience became quiet as the Great Llazarrad began his work.

Not two minutes later, Sly and the rest of the audience were roaring with laughter. Up on the stage, Carmelita was now hopping up and down the stage with great bounding leaps, every now and again releasing a croaky ‘RIBBET’ and snapping at imaginary flies. The ‘transformation’ Llazarrad had meant, was hypnotizing her into _thinking_ she was a variety of strange beings. The first being a frog. Sly wiped away a tear and wished he had his camera with him. The resemblance to Raleigh was disturbing.

Sly suddenly froze in his hiding place, an evil grin making its way through his whiskers. Still chuckling, he began to make his way quickly and carefully to the stage through the hanging spotlights. By the time he got there, Carmelita had been changed into a rhino with a caramel stuck on her horn, (a suggestion from the audience). While the Inspector ran around the stage with crossed eyes, desperately trying to remove the imaginary candy, Sly lowered himself behind the wings, out of view of the audience. Thankfully, Llazarrad was near enough for him to tug on the back of his velvet vest.

Thinking it was a stage hand, Llazarrad was surprised to turn and see such a sneaky looking raccoon on his stage. He was even more surprised when the unexpected individual shoved a bag full of coins into his hands and made a strange request, involving his vixen volunteer. He considered the shady character and his petition quickly. It would probably be unethical to go along with the raccoon’s suggestion, especially since it appeared he was being bribed for it… but the weight of the bag was very compelling. Magicians and hypnotists, even in Vegas, didn’t get paid _really_ well unless they had some kind of gimmick, and Llazarrad was a magic purist.

Deciding to go along with it for the time being, he tucked the coin bag into his belt and returned to his show. “And now, ladies and gentlemen,” he said in his best performance closer voice, “I shall make this young woman vanish before your very eyes!”

The assistants paused for only a second, exchanging a brief glance. This wasn’t part of today’s script, and it was odd for Llazarrad to ad lib, but they were experienced enough to slip into the new routine without tripping. The light crew were also confused for a moment, but recovered quickly. They had done shows with disappearances before, and knew what to do.

As the large box was brought out, Llazarrad made sure Carmelita was still in a deep trance. Without any guidance as to what she was, she was a total blank, staring into space like a mannequin. When the prop was set firmly in place near center stage, she was led into the box by the assistants and turned around to face the audience.

Hoping nothing dangerous would come from bringing on this trick unexpectedly, Llazarrad began his performance as dramatic music swelled. He shut the three separate doors over Carmelita, first over the legs and feet, then the face, then the torso. Building his complex chant up to a crescendo, lights flashing until they were an incredibly fast strobe, he turned the box around on its wheels three times and threw open the doors with a shout.

Inside there was no Carmelita, and the audience burst into applause.


	5. Explanations

Bentley was pacing the short length of the van worriedly. It had been taking far too long for Sly to complete such a simple mission – something must have gone wrong. And, of course, the anti-noise ear plugs he had given him had made keeping in constant contact via comm.’s impossible. Bentley cursed softly, he should have taken more time to design something more fail-proof, or found a different target! Sly was far too unpredictable for Bentley to trust that he would stay completely on target without constant reminders.

Murray, for once being the calmer of the two, was using his binocucomm set to watch for Sly’s approach from the van roof. Murray wasn’t as worried for his young raccoon friend as Bentley was, he trusted that whatever trouble he had gotten into, if any, he could get out of it again. Sly was good at that sort of thing. He was on the lookout mostly to keep out of Bentley’s hair – figuratively speaking. The little guy just couldn’t sit still whenever his plans didn’t go right, and was likely to badger Murray’s ear off if he were too available. Safer to just stay on the roof.

Bentley, when Sly was more than forty minutes late, was just considering sending Murray out to look for the wayward raccoon when his rotund friend shouted down, “Bentley! Sly’s comin’!”

Tension in his shoulders snapped loose again, making Bentley stumble slightly as made his way to the van doors. “It’s about time! Is he being pursued?” he called up.

There was a pause as Murray looked through the binocucomm set again. His jaw dropped when he realized what he was looking at. “No,” he called hesitantly, “nobody’s chasin’ him, but--“

“Well, then, what could have taken him so long?” Bentley demanded hotly, “It’s not like him to lollygag on a job.”

“No- but Bentley--“

“You don’t suppose he stopped to go on another stupid roller coaster, do you?”

“No, I don’t. But Bentley!”

Bentley had reached the doors and was just about to open them, “What is it, Murray?”

“Sly’s got someone with him!”

“What?” He opened the doors, “Egad! Inspector Fox!”

—•—

Ten minutes later, Bentley and Murray were both sitting in the van, listening to Sly explain why Carmelita had come back with him, and why she wasn’t arresting everyone. Why she wasn’t acting at all like herself, in fact. While Sly was narrating what had happened at the _Atlantis_ , the Inspector was acting as lookout, sitting in Murray’s old spot on top of the van. Neither Murray nor Bentley seemed to trust her up there, they kept looking out the windows to check for any sign of an ambush. Sly ignored their fears and told the story:

After Carmelita had disappeared from the stage and the Great Llazarrad had finished up his act, the magician/hypnotist led Sly backstage. Sitting in a chair, blank stare still in place, was Carmelita. When Llazarrad had made her disappear, she had wound up below the stage, but the stage crew had steered her upstairs where she would be out of trouble and safe. Rather than conducting their business where anyone could overhear it, Llazarrad had led the two of them into his dressing room and closed the door behind them.

Before turning to the raccoon immediately, he had first shed the rings on his fingers, the jewel on his forehead, and his vest and shirt. Even for a reptile, wearing silk under hot lights for any amount of time was unbearable. Somehow looking more intimidating without half of his extravagant getup, Llazarrad had looked at Sly askance, “Now, I’m takin’ considerable risk if I do what you asked for in the wings, young fella.” Once the lights were off of him, Llazarrad’s speech pattern had shifted to almost a country boy twang, “How d’I know your intentions with this young lady are honorable?”

Sly shrugged, “I guess you don’t. You’ll just have to trust my word.”

Llazarrad smirked and motioned to the bag he had taken out of his belt, “And your money.”

“And that,” Sly conceded.

The lizard paused and looked over at the fox, sitting in one of his guest chairs. She was still a mental blank, and would remain so until some image had been impressed on her, like wax waiting for a seal. She was very vulnerable until then, as anyone with a drop of sense could program her. It made Llazarrad feel both powerful and incredibly small. “I could always bring her out of her trance and ask her,” Llazarrad had suggested.

Sly winced, “I don’t think she’d appreciate the humor.”

Llazarrad turned and looked at him through narrowed eyes, “I could always hypnotize _you_ , bumpkin, and get the news straight from the horse’s mouth.” The magician’s frill had rippled slightly, threateningly, making the decorations rattle.

Sly had dropped his cane and spread his arms defenselessly to his sides, “Go ahead, Llazarrad, I’m all yours!”

With a rattling snap, the frill had suddenly appeared around Llazarrad’s face. Sly twitched slightly at the sudden appearance. From his position up the lights, the frill pattern had appeared strange, but from only a few feet away, it took on a new dimension. It was like looking at a 3-D picture, the design seemed to fall back and leap forward at the same time, creating depths of paint and scales. Llazarrad began to weave his head as he had done on stage, the same sonorous tune making Sly’s body feel heavy.

Sly blinked.

He blinked again. He shook his head. It felt strange, like his ears had been stuffed with cotton. Had he been hypnotized?

Llazarrad had lowered his frill back onto his shoulders, a different expression on his face. An instant before he had looked determined, almost angry. Now he looked thoughtful, maybe even a little resigned. He hadn’t spoken to Sly directly, but turned to Carmelita again, watching the mannequin like stare. “I trust you won’t do nothing to harm the little lady, raccoon,” he had said. “I’m not sure about her, but I think you might actually be needin’ this experiment.”

Sly hadn’t questioned Llazarrad outright, but wondered what he meant. As far as he was concerned, this was a lark. Remaining quiet, he watched as the lizard began to program the Inspector.

—•—

“So…” Bentley began slowly, as though he were talking to a child, “you paid a stage hypnotist with the money stolen from the casino _I_ sent you to--“

“Only half of it,” Sly objected quickly.

“ _Half_ of an _entire_ day’s takings,” the turtle continued, “for a hypnotist to convince Inspector Fox – our long time pursuer – into thinking _she’s a member of our gang?_ ”

Sly grinned sheepishly, “Only for 48 hours.” He tried to look apologetic, but only succeeded in looking smugly pleased.

Bentley frowned at his friend’s flippancy, “What could have possibly possessed you to--“

“Look, look, look, guys,” he said, motioning with his hands calmly, “It’s only for 48 hours, and then everything’s back to normal. Think of it as an experiment. You like experiments, Bentley.” Bentley grumbled, but didn’t reply. Sly looked over at Murray, “And we can think of it as more of an adventure, right?”

Murray, who had remained silent throughout, crossed his arms and shook his head, “I don’t know, Sly. I mean, she’s great at the whole kicking butt thing – usually ours – but I don’t know if she’ll fit in!”

Up at the front of the van, through the driver’s side window, popped Carmelita’s head. Hanging upside down off the roof, her long dark hair making a small waterfall behind her, she said, “Hey guys, you almost done?” She paused, scanning the inside while still inverted. “Nice job upgrading! And the paint job on the outside is great! Awesome job, Murray!” And the head abruptly popped back out again.

There was a pause inside the van as everyone absorbed what had just happened. Murray was the first to speak up, “She’s totally in!”

Sly let out a whoop, then turned to Bentley.

The turtle grumbled and shifted in his chair. Taking on an ‘experiment’ that might turn around and arrest them all any moment wasn’t exactly appealing, but it didn’t look like they had much choice in the matter. Now that she was ‘programmed,’ as Sly put it, the Cooper Gang was stuck with a fourth member. “Alright,” he muttered darkly, “though I hardly condone this atrocity.”

Sly slapped Bentley on the back, knocking his glasses halfway down his nose, “I knew you would see it my way!” He jumped up and started for the doors, “Now it’s time to take Carmelita out and show her a few tricks of the trade.”

“What?!”

Sly stopped and looked back, “Well, what good is having Carmelita think she’s a thief if she doesn’t really know how the thieve?” he pointed out.

“Whatever possessed you to do this, Sly?” Bentley asked again with a groan.

Sly grinned from ear to ear, “’Cause I thought it would be fun!” He ducked out of the van before Bentley could raise any more objections.

Murray leaned out and called after him, “There are only a few hours till dawn, Sly, so keep it short!”

—•—

PT was pleased. Almost as soon as the cops knew where Sly and his gang were, he knew where they were. His inside sources had proved reliable and efficient. And the vixen Inspector had left for Vegas only two flights ahead of him. Keeping to form, she hadn’t taken any partners or Interpol backup with her, but would be depending on the local police to provide any extra muscle. That would be just fine. PT had nearly filled the plane with people under his employ. He could take on Sly, his gang, and anything the Interpol woman could throw at him. He would smash through them all and find that computer.

The plane shook as they hit a strong crosswind. There were only a few furtive looks from alarmed passengers; his people were used to planes. PT was, of course, riding first class, and so were many of his higher ranking associates. No one was sitting directly next to him, but just behind him were the three men who made up the first level of his hired muscle. His ‘generals’ so to speak. All heavyset, all with permanent scowls scrunching their features, and all ruthless in their methods. In the seats closest to the windows sat his advisors, who only advised when they felt PT was in a mood to listen. The rest of the plane, or nearly, was filled with what Carmelita would consider thugs and lowlifes. Brute force came cheap, but PT believed that with the proper hierarchy set in place, even cheap hooligans could be an effective fighting force. It all depended on how things were organized and who was doing the organizing.

The pilot of the plane announced their immanent decent into a stop-over port. This would be the last one before they reached Vegas. PT grinned and took a sip of the coffee he had brought with him, (the idea of drinking an airline’s coffee made him shudder). It was going to be a fun time in Las Vegas with his family of crooks.


	6. Loyalties

Sly awoke the next evening in high spirits. The few hours he had gotten to train with Carmelita the night before had proved to be some of the most thrilling of his life. More than stealing, more than roller coasters, watching Carmelita successfully execute some of the Cooper Clan moves was a rush. He had known that she was athletic, coordinated, and had the stamina of an Olympic biker, but she was already doing rope running – not walking, running – and spire jumps like they were nothing! It was almost frightening, if he thought about it. If she ever recovered memories of these 48 hours after she reverted to her cop self, then he would be in serious trouble.

Sly shrugged to himself and started cleaning up. It was too late now, and Llazarrad had theoretically taken care of that end of things. If his ‘programming’ worked the way it was supposed to, then at the end of 48 hours, she would slip back to herself with no memory of what had actually happened. All she would remember would be that she had been unsuccessfully hunting for Sly and his gang through the streets of Vegas. Until then, she was a new recruit of the Cooper Clan, coming from a down-and-out family back in Paris. Or at least, that was story Llazarrad had fed her before turning her over to Sly. So far it seemed to be working. She hadn’t questioned her past at all, not how they had met, when they had come to Las Vegas, or why she had joined up with them. Sly assumed that all of the gaps were being filled in by Carmelita’s own mind, and hoped nothing he said countered what she thought was true.

Finishing his morning routine, he headed out of the tiny motel that he and the rest of the gang were staying in and went to the van. All of their important items were kept there, instead of being moved back and forth. Bentley thought they would be safer when kept in the van, and Sly knew better than to argue. He looked up, the sun was about three-quarters of the way through its route across the sky, which would make it about 4:00 or 5:00 pm. A couple hours of light – and heat – and then the cool, comforting evening would settle over the desert.

The inside of the van was amazingly hot and humid – like a greenhouse inside an oven. Which it was. Bentley was already awake and working on the ‘puter they had stolen a couple days earlier in London. His brows were drawn down over his nose in supreme concentration, sweat trickled down his face, and his fingers created a blur over the keys. He was so focused on his work that he didn’t seem to notice the heat.

Sly didn’t close the van doors, “Jeez, Bentley,” he said, striding past the working turtle, “do you think it could be any hotter in here?” He leaned over the driver and passenger seats, rolling down the windows to let in the little breeze that was blowing outside.

Bentley didn’t look up, “Yes. How did you sleep?”

Sly smirked, “Fine, no thanks to you.”

The turtle finally turned away from the computer and glared at him through his thick lenses. Sly had to work to keep a straight face. When he and Carmelita had come back from their short – but very productive – training session, Bentley had been waiting for them like an impatient mother on her daughter’s first date. Without waiting to hear how things had gone, he had informed them that they had been given separate rooms, with both Bentley and Murray’s sitting in between them. Carmelita had looked slightly affronted, but Sly had nearly died trying to hold in his laughter. Sometimes his reptilian friend could be very old fashioned, and very protective.

“So,” Sly said, breaking Bentley’s death-stare, “how’s the ‘puter decryption coming?”

Bentley sighed and turned back to his desk, hunching his shoulders in his typical hacker position, “Not very well. The guy must have over a hundred layers of protection on this thing, and I’ve only gotten through the first dozen or so. Whatever is on this computer, he doesn’t want anyone to read it.”

“Hmm…” Sly knew PT Bull’s reputation, anyone on the shadier side of the world would, and it made him immensely curious as to what he kept in his personal computer. It could be something as boring as a registry for all of his subordinates, or as exciting as all of the secret locations of his loot and bank numbers. Whatever it was, he was determined to know.

Instead of starting on his flurry of hacker code again, Bentley stood and walked to one of the corners of the van. “Catch,” he said, tossing him something long and thin.

Sly snapped the object out of the air almost instinctively. It was his cane. He paused; no, it wasn’t his cane. The weight was different, the balance slightly more in the hook’s tip, the wood not as smooth. He looked more closely at the metal that made the hook. Even the old wear marks from constant climbing, swinging and pick pocketing were missing. He looked back up at Bentley, who was taking a long pull from a water bottle. “What is this?”

Bentley grinned, “Didn’t fool you, huh?” He put down the water bottle and brought out another cane, and tossed it to Sly as well.

This cane was definitely his, the weight and balance were perfect, and the handle had all the smooth areas from where Sly gripped it the most often. Holding both canes at the same time, the differences were even more obvious, but so were the similarities. They were the same height, the shapes of the hooks identical… if Sly wasn’t as familiar with the cane as someone who had spent his entire life using it, he wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference. He looked at Bentley and quirked an eyebrow in silent questioning.

Bentley shrugged, as though embarrassed. “I thought that as long as you’re going through with this farce with Carmelita, she might as well have the Cooper Clan secret weapon, too.” Sly stood and swung the new cane experimentally, Bentley continued to explain, “Of course, she can’t have one unless you give her yours, and so I built this imitation for her. It’s not as sturdy as the original, but it should be more than adequate for how long she’ll be with us.”

Sly finished testing the cane, turned to the reclining turtle, “This is brilliant, Bentley! It’ll really help tonight!”

Bentley had the grace to turn slightly pink at the compliment, “Yeah, well, just make sure that it gets put to some use. It took some careful measuring to get it that precise.”

Sly grinned mischievously, “Sure will, buddy.” He looked around the van curiously, “By the way, where did you put her shock pistol? Don’t want to be missing that when Ms. Fox comes around to herself tomorrow evening.”

Turning back to the ‘puter and beginning his flurry of typing again, he twitched his head behind him, towards the front of the van, “In the secret compartment under the driver’s seat. Figured if the vixen got curious, even she would have trouble finding it there.”

Sly nodded, good. That had been one of the things that Llazarrad had warned against: seeing anything that might suddenly jerk her back to her own memories. Anything as familiar as that shock pistol was likely to jerk _something_ out of whack, so Sly had given it to Bentley to hide before turning in, as well as her choker and badge.

Slinging both of the canes over his shoulder, he walked out of the van to find Carmelita and Murray. He was hungry and wanted to go out for breakfast.

—•—

Later that evening, after the sun went down, Sly and Carmelita were once again swinging through the back alleys of Las Vegas with child-like abandon. Sly had never known what it was like to have brothers or sisters, or to even enjoy the thrill of sharing the night with his parents before they were taken from him. Companionship through the night was new, alien almost. Bentley and Murray were great friends, and Murray even came out in the field with him from time to time, but neither of them had the abilities he had, and so he had always been alone in the shadows. Watching Carmelita swinging from building to building, or feeling her presence just behind him, felt… good. It felt as though he had been missing something before, like a patch of his fur had been rubbed away, leaving his skin cold and exposed. Having Carmelita with him, it just felt _right_.

And Carmelita, pride of Interpol and enemy of anyone and everyone who dared to cross the thin blue line, was taking to back street acrobatics and petty theft like she had been born to it. Before long she was pick pocketing in plain sight without anyone being the wiser. On a whim, Sly led her into a small casino’s back room, showing her how to crack a standard vault. Before Sly could demonstrate, Carmelita had it open and empty. Oh, it felt good to be alive!

As they rested on one of the roofs, Sly continued her lessons, as though she were a real Cooper recruit. “Normally we wouldn’t hit a place like that. As a rule, we only steal from master criminals.”

Carmelita, still in her Inspector gear, but hardly looking like an Interpol operative, was reclining on the slightly sloped roof like it was a pool chair. The back streets of Vegas were much darker than the well beaten Strip, and the moonlight had a chance to shine down without competition. The pure light highlighted and silvered the whorls in her fur, transforming her from an earthy vixen to a shining, celestial creature. Unaware of her transformation, she tilted her head at Sly, “Why? Doesn’t that limit us?”

Sly smiled. Really, now that her law abiding fetters were off, she was a true crook. “Sometimes. But stealing from regular people doesn’t mean anything, and it’s unfair. If you can pull off a heist from a master criminal, you know you’re a master thief.” As Sly recited the family motto, he shuddered. A tiny thread of doubt was slowly wriggling its way into his mind, making him question his actions. What would his father say if he could see him now? Here he was, teaching the family secrets to the one woman who had ever come close to catching him. His enemy. She wouldn’t remember any of this, true, but why _was_ he taking this risk?

He tore his eyes away from Carmelita and stared down at his feet. The reply he had given Bentley, that it was just for fun, was enough for his friends, but not for him. Not anymore. It was true that that was the first inspiration, but as he watched Carmelita, and felt what it was like to have someone who was truly on his level share the most important part of his life, he had to wonder. Did he want to have someone who could do the things he could do as a partner? Did he want Carmelita to be a thief permanently? Was this just a way for him to see his dream, even if it was a cheap imitation? Was this all just a selfish diversion? He glanced at the cane Bentley had made for Carmelita. The one she was holding so jealously and could handle so well. _Not as sturdy as the original_ , he had said.

Sly sighed and turned his gaze skyward. It was a sad reality, he realized, but however right it felt to have Carmelita at his side, flying through the night air and thieving with glee, it was really wrong. It could never happen while Carmelita was in full control of her senses, when she was really herself. What this was right now was just him, playing with her mind for his own comfort, to chase away a loneliness he hadn’t known was there. Guilt and shame crashed over Sly like a wave, and he shuddered again.

Carmelita, completely unaware of her companion’s despair, was watching the stars, feeling freer than she had ever felt before. She didn’t understand why she felt so… released¸ but thought it had something to do with the raccoon sitting by her side. It was a wonderful feeling. Like walking on air, or discovering that she had wings. _I am a leaf on the wind_ , she thought happily. _Watch how I soar._

The two of them sat on the roof for over an hour, enjoying the quietness and beauty of the night. Slowly, Sly’s depression eased, and he starting picking out the constellations that could be seen. He wished they were in the desert proper, then the whole sky would be alight with the tiny pinpricks. He was on the verge of asking if Carmelita would be willing to go into the desert when his comm. hissed to life and a panicked voice came to him.

“Sly! Sly!! Carmelita!”

Carmelita, who also had a comm., sat bolt upright at the sudden interruption. She looked around in confusion at first, forgetting that the voice was coming from a tiny speaker set her ear, but Sly replied immediately, “What is it, Bentley? What’s wrong?”

Bentley’s voice came again, but it was muddled, like there was a lot of background noise trying to drown him out, “It’s PT, Sly, _he’s found us!_ ”

Sly rushed to feet and starting running back to the van almost before he realized he had moved at all. Behind him, he could hear Carmelita scrambling to keep up. What he had been blessing only moments before, the remoteness from the main Strip, Sly found himself cursing now. Why had he strayed so far? Why couldn’t Carmelita be trained closer to the van? _Why was he going so slow?_

From where Sly and Carmelita had been it would have normally taken them fifteen minutes to the van going full tilt, but they managed to trim it down to nine. It still wasn’t enough. Not by a long shot. By the time they got back to the van, Bentley and Murray were gone, and the van was in shambles. Murray’s precious van had been dented and dinging in several places, as though the invaders had actually attacked the van in their blind fury. Papers, books, knick-knacks, everything that had been stored in the van was now strewn across the floor and the pavement outside. Bentley’s desk and chair were overturned and shoved into a corner, a spider web crack spanned the windshield, and Sly was horrified to see a few tiny spatters of blood staining the scattered papers.

Something was wrong with Sly’s ears. Not five minutes ago they had been as keen as ever, but the world seemed to have suddenly gone silent. He couldn’t even hear his own breathing, which was coming much too quickly, or his feet shuffling through the ruins of his life. He dropped his cane without realizing it, walked to the front of the van, to the seats, hoping to see something – anything, that might prove that his friends had gotten away safely. There was nothing but a half eaten doughnut and a calculator. Representations of his friends – his brothers. His eyes felt strange, when he touched them, he discovered they were wet.

A tiny moan escaped his lips, but instead of dying away, it slowly grew, until he was screaming. He kept screaming as he fell to his knees, even when Carmelita finally caught up and cautiously stepped in, even as he tasted a coppery tang at the back of his throat as his screams tore his own throat to ribbons. _Why had they taken them? Why couldn’t they just take the computer and leave?_ They hadn’t even decrypted it for Christ sakes, why kidnap when they had what they wanted?

As Sly sobbed uncontrollably into the floor of the van, Carmelita noticed something that seemed out of place. Everything had been ransacked and broken, except for one thing. A green binocucomm set. Bentley’s set. Perfectly intact, set with care on one of the legs of Bentley’s inverted desk. She knew there was no way for the binocucomm to land in such a small area when there had obviously been a struggle. It either meant it was a message from their friends, or from the ones who had blitzed them.

Sly was still curled on the floor, but was only moaning to himself now, rather than crying outright. Carefully avoiding broken equipment, Carmelita made her way to the disconsolate raccoon, and gently touched his shoulder. He twitched, snapped his head up. At first his eyes didn’t focus on her, but stared as though she wasn’t even there. “Sly,” she said quietly, “they’re going to be fine, I know it.”

Sly didn’t respond at first, but began shaking. The master of thieves had been robbed, and the robbers had taken his most precious commodity: his family. It had happened again. First his parents when he been a child, and now the friends he had made to replace them. Why was it always the ones he loved who took the worst blows? Why was he never able to protect them? Finally, in a small voice that trembled, he managed, “They wouldn’t have done this if they were going to let us go. They have the computer now… they have no reason to bargain with me.” He head fell back into his arms, but he remained quiet.

Carmelita frowned. This wasn’t going to do at all. She pinched his arm hard, when his head snapped back up she cut off his protest, “Snap out of it Sly! It’s like you’re giving up or something! They’re not dead, or they’d still be here! Why drag off corpses?”

Sly frowned, his tear soaked fur rippling, “But, the computer--“

“They must want something else,” Carmelita insisted. She pointed at Bentley’s abandoned binocucomm, “Look.”

Sly twisted around and saw the carefully positioned binocucomm. He knew what it meant as well, because he snatched it up instantly. Sly put the set to his eyes and flipped the playback button. Along with acting as a combination binoculars/comm. unit/locator, every set had a recording capability, which made them convenient when the gang wanted to leave messages for each other. Sly watched as the image of the gigantic PT Bull swam into the view of the binocucomm. Carmelita stood near, listening in as the pit bull began to speak.

“Hello, Sly Cooper,” he said with an unpleasant grin. His teeth were white and straight, but the way he smiled was ugly. “As you can see,” he said motioning behind him at the fresh carnage of the van, “I have found you and your little band. But I’m afraid that it wasn’t you, exclusively, that I wanted. You see,” he leaned forward, “ _I want the laptop you stole from me_.” Sly nearly dropped the set in shock. Surely they had that now? PT continued, “I know you have it, Cooper, and I want it back. Until that computer is returned to me, I will be entertaining your friends as my guests.”

Here the view of the binocucomm swung to the left, settling on the bound and gagged forms of his friends. Sly’s blood began to boil when he saw the dark bruises on Bentley’s face and the deep knife cut in one of Murray’s arms. Murray was out cold, but Bentley saw the binocucomm and struggled feebly, “It’s a trap, Sly!” Quickly, a thug cuffed the turtle hard in the temple. His head fell limply to his breast. He was unconscious.

PT came back, the same evil, twisted smile playing his lips. “Let’s just say, my hospitality tends to wane the more it is used.” The view suddenly went black, and Sly nearly threw the set across the van in rage. Using his friends – his brothers as bargaining chips for a hunk of silicon and plastic!

But that had to mean that they didn’t have the computer yet. Somehow they had missed it when they had torn apart the van. Working with an energy born of desperation, Sly began to systematically work the van over for the second time in thirty minutes. With Carmelita’s silent help, they sifted through every item in the van, and there was still no sign of the laptop. Gulping down his panic, Sly began thinking of the situation from Bentley’s point of view. If he had spent several days working on cracking the secret files of a major crime lord, and said lord suddenly appeared to reclaim his property, what would be his first priority? Hide the goods. But where?

Suddenly thinking of the one place it could be, Sly pounced on the driver’s seat and tore it out of its stabilizers. The cover for the secret compartment was slightly askew, and Sly knew he had found it. There, shunted underneath Carmelita’s shock pistol, was the laptop that had caused so much trouble. He took out the pistol and set it aside, then took out the computer. It was still on, the screen not completely down. Sly unfolded it and saw that Bentley must have made some breakthrough on the security, because the files he had been trying to access were all open. Scanning the pages quickly, he realized why PT wanted it so badly. Better than a roster, the computer had every piece of information the police would need to hang PT. Schedules, maps, names, security codes – the works.

Sly sighed in partial relief. With this, he could get his friends back safe and sound. He was just slipping the computer into his backpack when he heard Carmelita move towards him.

“Don’t do that, Sly.” She was holding her shock pistol.


	7. Hopeless Battle

Time stood still as Sly stared at Carmelita standing over him, once again holding her shock pistol. She wasn’t pointing it at him yet, but the way she gripped it, like it was a lifeline and she was hanging off the edge of a cliff, Sly knew that it was over. How could he have just put the pistol out in the open like that? Now his friends were hostages and he was in the power of Inspector Fox. There was no way for him to escape either, his cane was still behind Carmelita, where he had dropped it, the only way of getting to it was going through Carmelita. And she was armed with the pistol _and_ the faux cane Bentley had made for her.

_Game over_ , he thought. _I need advice! What do I do?_

Very slowly, Sly put the computer back on the floor, then raised his hands slightly, fingers spread. If he was captured, he was captured, but he might be able to convince Carmelita to help him. After all, PT was a bad guy, too. “So,” he said quietly, “what now?”

To his surprise, Carmelita crouched down next to him until she was even with him. She leaned forward and stared him hard in the eye. “Now we make PT pay for this,” she growled harshly.

Sly blinked. His brain refused to process what she had just said. An Interpol officer _offering_ to help an international criminal to get his gang back? “You mean it, Carm?” he asked incredulously.

Carmelita snorted with a frown, “Of course. They’re our friends!”

Pure astonishment shifted to uncertainty on Sly’s face. _Our_ friends? “What do you mean?”

Carmelita put down her cane just long enough to give Sly a gentle cuff across his ear. She smiled lightly, “I may be new, but I’m part of this gang, too.” Picking up her cane, she stood and strode back to where Sly had dropped his. Using her foot, she flipped it straight at Sly, who caught it out of pure reflex. He was still staring at Carmelita in bafflement. “We’re not going to just hand over what PT wants,” she said, apparently not noticing his slack jawed stare. “We’re going to make him pay. _We’re going to fight_.” Her eyes glittered dangerously, and Sly realized that for once, they weren’t meant for him.

His breath came out in a rush, as though he had been punched in the stomach. Somehow, unbelievably, the sight of her pistol, the _feel_ of her pistol, hadn’t restored her memories. He glanced at the hand that still held her weapon in a death grip. It was trembling very slightly. It hadn’t restored them entirely, anyway. Carmelita didn’t seem aware of how she was holding the pistol, but Sly could almost see the suppressed Inspector in her, fighting the hypnosis. She was still a loyal Cooper gang member, but it was only a matter of time now before she broke through the spell Llazarrad had put on her, and returned to her old self again. If he wanted help in rescuing his friends, he would have to take Carmelita’s suggestion now, before she changed back.

What she was proposing, though, it was a bad idea. It was a _stupid_ idea. Two people taking on PT Bull, notorious London thug, and all of his forces, were as likely to win as a couple of bugs were to win against a kid with a magnifying glass. They would be fried before they even got close. It would be a hopeless battle.

Sly looked over at one of the spots of blood – Murray’s blood – that spattered the floor. It was already starting to dry. _They have no reason to bargain with me_ , he had said to Carmelita. It was still true. If he just handed over what PT wanted, he would have no reason to return Bentley or Murray. He would have everything he wanted, and Sly would be in his power to boot.

Sly clenched his hand into a fist, crumpling the paper that was stained with his family’s blood. If this was the game PT wanted to play, Sly would oblige. He wouldn’t lose another family to fiends, hopeless battle or not.

—•—

The building that PT had chosen to outfit as a temporary fortress was barely within the city limits. It was in a rundown neighborhood swarmed with the lowlifes that made their way in any city. The building itself had been a kind of nesting ground for them, and it had taken a little time for his men to root them out of every corner. Normally PT wouldn’t be caught in such derelict accommodations, but his current business required him to be away from prying eyes.

PT himself was in the best room that could be found, on the top floor, four stories up. Here the walls were still mostly intact and the rats less frequent. His ‘guests’ were in the next room where he could keep an eye on them and occasionally tend to their needs. Such as making sure they kept quiet. He had had to send in several of his more talented enforcers to quiet down the hippo. When he had revived, he had broken the ropes that restrained him, but he was still weak from the blows he had taken earlier and went down again quickly. He was now bound with chains. The turtle didn’t cause any trouble. He just sat where he had been originally dumped and stared at the floor. The enforcers were left in the room anyway, just in case they decided to try anything smart. PT wondered idly if the beating the turtle had taken hadn’t damaged him somehow. But it didn’t matter. Sly would come anyway. The fool was sentimental like that.

The floors below, instead of being swamped with the homeless and the deserted, were now crawling with PT’s guards. They patrolled the hallways, rested in rooms, and played cards in every nook they could find. They were thickest on the ground floor, where anyone was likely to breach the perimeter, but the second and third floors also had their sentries. Two were walking on of the western hallways on the second floor.

One of the guards, a small, gray feline, stopped suddenly and spun around. Large, nocturnal eyes scanned back and forth over the hallway they had just walked through, searching for the source of his apprehension. Without taking his eyes away from the dark corridor, he whispered to his partner, “Did you hear anything?”

The second guard, a tall grizzly, looked back down where the cat was pointing. His eyes weren’t quite as well adapted to the dark, but he could see all the way down to where the hall turned. Only a ratty pair of curtains swayed in the breeze coming through a broken window. He snorted, “Nothin’. Don’t see nothin’, neither.” He took a long drag from his cigarette, then dropped it to the floor and ground it with his foot. “Buildin’s old. Prob’ly settling.” He exhaled, creating a tiny cloud of carbon dioxide and nicotine.

The cat’s ears twitched and swiveled around, searching for any scrap of sound in the eerily quiet building. After another minute, satisfied, he rose out of the crouch he had sunken into and continued with his larger partner. He kept a hand on the gun strapped to his hip, still listening intently for anything out of the ordinary. Keeping his voice quiet, he turned to the bear at his side, “This place was a bad choice for a hideout. I can feel something’s about to happen.”

The bear chuckled lowly, “That your cat instincts kickin’ in? Or you know somethin’ the rest of us don’t?”

The gray shook his head, “I don’t know. Something just feels _wrong_.” There was a tiny sound from the shadows they had come from, and the cat spun again, drawing his gun. “There! Did you hear it?”

His partner had his gun out too, his flashlight out and shining down the hallway. “Yeah, I heard it.” He swept the light from side to side, but it revealed nothing to their sight. He still wasn’t convinced, “I don’t trust them shadows no more. Could be hidin’ all sorts of nasties.”

For a moment neither moved. As a rule, they were men used to the darkness. They had spent their lives depending on the concealment offered by shadows to execute their jobs. But now, they were hiding something else. They were almost able to see the shadows twisting around each other, protecting the unknown from their view. They could feel it, the eyes of that nameless thing, staring at them, and were unable to stare back.

Finally, the cat began walking into the gloom. His partner hung back, gun drawn and light shining. The feline slowly crept back to the window and the fluttering curtains, lithe figure making no sound over the threadbare carpet. He stopped at the window, bent, and picked something up from the floor. He grinned with relief at his partner, “Just a piece of the ceiling Spackle.”

The bear let out the breath he had been holding, and lowered his gun again. Just as the flashlight beam fell away from him, the cat suddenly flew out of the open window with a yowl. The bear blinked, hesitated a second before he broke into a sprint for the window. He knew he would be too late, and just hoped that cats _did_ land on their feet.

Halfway to the window, he was slammed in the back with a huge jolt of energy. Every muscle in his body snapped taut, from his face and jaw to his toes, crammed inside his boots. His fingers clenched, and the gun would have fired, except he always kept his fingers outside the trigger guard until he had a target. His jaws clamped together so tight he thought he could hear his teeth begin to groan under the strain, ready to crack, his lips pulled back in a feral snarl he couldn’t help, he could feel the muscles in his neck stand out like rods. Twitching, trying to draw breath into lungs that refused to function, he collapsed to the floor. He tried to shout a warning to the other guards, but his jaws refused to unclench. He was paralyzed. Minutes seemed to pass in lieu of seconds. Finally, he was able to draw a ragged breath into his body, which threw him into a fit of coughing. He tried to move his arms, but as soon as they stirred, a slim shadow crossed his field of vision, and another shock of electricity ripped through him. Everything went black.

Carmelita knelt over the fallen guard and checked his pulse. It was a little fast, but that just meant he was still alive. Anyone’s pulse would be faster after two shots from the shock pistol. She wrinkled her nose as the smell of burnt fur reached her. At least his flesh was still intact. Mostly.

She heard Sly swing inside through the window behind her. He had been hanging outside the entire time, occasionally making some sound or other to draw the guards close and yank them out the window with his cane. They had made their way through the layers of sentries in the same way – separate and take them out individually. There had only been one group with enough sense to be in a group of three rather than two, but even they fell to the combination of raccoon and fox. A quick look was passed between them, and they hurried on. The night was waning fast, and dark deeds were best done when only the stars could witness them.

Carmelita was worried. Not about Bentley or Murray, she was confident that she and Sly could break them out of whatever prison PT had them in. Not for Sly or herself, either, at least as far as their physical safety was concerned. They could take out everyone in the building before they even realized that there _were_ intruders.

She was worried for herself. For her mind. It was starting to play tricks on her. As soon as she had seen the pistol in the van, a tenseness had crept into her shoulders, and it felt as though something were tickling at the back of brain. Everything that had been clear to her moments before had blurred. It was like placing a second image over reality – a visual echo. Even Sly looked like he was being chased by his own ghost. It was subtle, almost invisible until she looked hard, but it was there. The pistol itself was strange as well. Or rather, her reaction to it was. Her hand refused to open once it was clasped around the stock. It was like a piece of herself that she didn’t want to lose.

Carmelita shook her head as she ran down the hall. Now was no time to be distracted. They had a job to do, the others were depending on them. Swinging her cane up over her head in an arch, she latched onto an exposed beam in the ceiling and swung up to the third level. A tiny, unheard voice at the back of her mind whispered, _Procedure._

—•—

PT was sitting at his makeshift desk, grinning. He knew that his new guest had arrived. He had installed a chip into every one of his guards’ gun holsters, which sent a locating signal to his computers, letting him know exactly where they were. It was a way of making sure nobody slacked off, and much more exact than security cameras. For the past ten minutes the signals had been stopping. His secondary computer now showed a senseless pattern of still dots, when it should have been a dizzying swirl of movement. At first he had thought some of his guards were just getting lazy, but as the stillness spread, he knew the Sly had come. And he wasn’t playing by the rules. Fine, neither was he. Barking out orders to every sentry within hearing distance, he set up a protective ring around himself and the room where the hippo and turtle were being held.

He waited, watching his screen as the raccoon quickly made his way through the ranks on the third floor. He was impressed. The thief must really be motivated to rescue his friends to make such quick work of all of the thugs. PT knew from experience that rage could contribute greatly to a person’s fighting power, but for a single raccoon to mow through so many heavies, it was odd.

The wave of stilling dots made it to the fourth floor, his floor, and slowly approached the perimeter. Just as it came close to the ring, it stopped. PT could see the line just outside his room, and the guards were beginning to fidget. He yelled and they snapped to attention. It was too dark to see very far beyond the shoulders of the guards, so he trusted his computer screen to show him if the raccoon began to move again. He watched, and waited.

Minutes drug by slowly, and there was still no sign. PT briefly considered having the guards hunt through the darkness for the cowardly thief, but knew that that would be like sending them out already bound and gagged. Separated, they were vulnerable. Together they were impenetrable. PT’s eyes stayed glued to the screen. He only noticed something was wrong when his guards began muttering.

Looking up, he could see a tiny light, far back in the hallway, slowly growing. The guards were shifting uneasily, unsure of what it was. A few had drawn their firearms and were taking aim, but they hesitated to fire, not knowing what exactly it was they would be shooting at. PT suddenly realized what it was, and shouted for everyone to get down, but it was too late. He barely managed to duck behind his desk as an explosion ripped through the room, slamming into the guards and taking every one down. PT’s fur tingled and snapped as he rose from the floor to see all of his guards sprawled out on the floor, stunned. He growled and began heading for the source of the light and the explosion, when the window he had been sitting in front of shattered, and a weight crashed into his back, throwing him into a forward roll.

PT stared at the thing that had attacked him, which had flipped around during the roll to crouch on his chest. He gaped. Sly Cooper! The raccoon’s face was twisted into an ugly scowl, pure rage making it impossible for him to speak to the London kingpin. As PT slowly regained his breath, he managed to gasp, “How?”

The thief smiled, the grin contorting his features even further, and looked where the explosion had come from without replying. PT twisted painfully from his position on the floor to see the form of Inspector Carmelita Fox striding over the fallen guards, smoking pistol in one hand, and the Cooper Clan cane in the other. Again, PT gaped. Impossible! A woman of the law siding with a known criminal – even to capture another – was unthinkable! Especially this one. She was known for being irrationally strict at times. His attention was brought back by the thief still sitting on top of him, “A trick I learned from Bentley,” he said lowly. “Remove the safety chip that keeps the power from reaching dangerous levels, and you’ve got yourself a multiuse bomb. Just charge it and let ‘er rip.”

Carmelita smiled. It felt good to use the shock pistol, it felt familiar. And it felt very good to take down PT Bull, but she was surprised at the vicious thoughts working their way through her head, all aimed at the prone crime lord. He had torn into the van and kidnapped their friends, but it almost felt like she had something more personal against him. She wanted to take him down, take him down _hard_. Her left hand clenched around the cane in a bid for self-control.

Sly leaned in close to PT’s face, snarling, “ _Where are they?_ ”

PT stared back into the narrowed brown eyes evenly. Moving his arm deliberately slowly, he motioned to the door that led to the prison room. As soon as Sly’s eyes moved away from him, he heaved upwards, throwing Sly into the traitorous Carmelita. Both crashed to the floor, canes and limbs tangled. By the time they were on their feet again, PT was up and had a gun trained on them.

Sly gritted his teeth in frustration. So close! They were so close to freeing the others! But PT wasn’t shooting yet, which still gave them a window of opportunity. He muttered to Carmelita out of the corner of his mouth, “Go for the others, I’ll keep PT distracted.”

Carmelita shook her head almost imperceptibly, “No. I want him. You get the others.”

Sly was about to argue, but he saw the glitter in her eyes, the set of her jaw. No amount of arguing would keep Carmelita from this fight.

He looked at PT, who seemed to be trying to decide whether to shoot to kill or just to cripple. Over seven feet tall and muscular, he had to weigh at least two-hundred and fifty pounds, closer to three hundred. Against Carmelita, barely over five feet and one-thirty, the odds weren’t good. But he had seen her fight, and now she had two weapons rather than one. As much as he hated to admit it, out of the two of them, she was the better fighter, and was better equipped. Digging his toes into the ground, he sprang for the door.

There was the sound of a gunshot, and Sly felt something whiz over his left shoulder, ruffling his fur. There was another shot, sounding more like static, and PT cursed loudly. Sly barely glanced back as he flew through the door.

Carmelita let a grin pull at her whiskers. This definitely felt right. Whatever PT had done to make her so angry, having him cornered made her feel lighter, made her feel in control. Whatever he had done, he was going to pay for it, and for violating the Cooper Gang at the same time. She heard the voice at the back of her mind, desperately calling out _Procedure_ , but ignored it, and stepped into battle.


	8. Only a Day

Sly bolted down the hallway like a man possessed. It didn’t occur to him that there might be any remaining guards down this hall, he gave up all attempts to be quiet or stealthy. His feet slammed the floor with loud, hollow thumps and his breath came in harsh gasps, but no guards presented themselves. It might have been because there were no guards to step between him and his goal, or it might have been that there were, but they saw the half wild look in his eye and decided to let the raccoon pass unhindered. Whatever the reason, Sly met no more resistance until he came to the door. It was locked with a large padlock, but the door was so old and thin that Sly just kicked right through it. Hardly subtle, but he wasn’t interested in being subtle anymore.

The room was small and dank, the tiny ceiling light only accentuating the darkness rather than chasing it away. A few pieces of moldy furniture were scattered around the room, ancient cardboard boxes huddling close to them like puppies seeking warmth. It took a second for Sly to see that one of those dark clusters of shapes wasn’t decaying furnishings, but his friends... And their guards, each holding a gun cocked and ready by their heads.

Sly froze on the threshold. Both Murray and Bentley were awake, Bentley struggled in his guard’s grip at the sight of Sly, but he was jerked back roughly, the pistol’s barrel jammed harder into his temple. Murray just watched his holder out of the corner of his eyes, waiting for him to become distracted, but while still in his chains, there was little the hippo was likely to do to cause the gun wielder any trouble. The one holding Bentley grinned nastily as Sly drank in the hopeless scene before him, “One wrong move, raccoon,” he growled, “and your friends’ brains are hitting the wall.”

Sly twitched at the threat, but made no move into the room. Even if he could wrestle a gun away from one of the guards, then the friend being held by the other guard would die. Alone, he couldn’t do anything to help them.

—•—

Carmelita laughed in PT’s face as he flailed to catch her lightning quick form. He was large and powerful, it was true, but he was so muscular it slowed down his reflexes, making it easy for Carmelita to dart around him without fear of being caught. She feinted to his left, and while he moved to block a blow that wasn’t coming, she ducked between his legs and came up behind him, using her cane to give him a good blow across the backs of his knees. He cried out as his knees buckled, and Carmelita used his lower position to leap straight up and whirl out another blow with the cane against his left ear. He yelped and crashed to the floor.

Carmelita’s grin stretched from one ear to the other through her whiskers. _Gods_ this felt good! A small part of her was slightly nauseated that she could take so much pleasure from a brutal beating, but like the voice that continued to whisper to her about procedure and guidelines, it was easily shunted aside. Who cared about rules when she had this scumbag at her feet?

Taking a couple of steps towards the still prone figure of PT, Carmelita aimed her shock pistol and fired. The safety chip was out, but to build up a truly monstrous charge she would have to keep the trigger down and then release. She gave PT a reasonably small jolt. Despite that, he writhed and screamed on the floor as the electricity worked through him. He flopped on the floor again, limp, but still groaning. His large body meant he would need more than one shot to put him out. Carmelita held the trigger down for three seconds and released. The larger dose had him convulsing rather than twisting, and his screams were choked back as his jaws clenched together and his esophagus closed up. He was still conscious when the spasms passed.

Carmelita frowned and took a step forward, holding down the trigger for a full six seconds. Before she could release, PT’s fist shot out and swung around, catching the Inspector in a vicious backhand. Carmelita and the shot went flying, the vixen collapsing to the floor, the stray shot going through a window. Carmelita rolled to hands and knees, spitting out a mouthful of blood on the dusty floor. Several of her teeth felt loose, but she hadn’t actually lost any, and her jaw still felt intact, so PT was probably weaker after that second pistol blast. But now her pistol was gone, flung to the shadowy corners of the room, and the cane she had dropped near PT when he hit her. Weaponless, PT could make quick work of her.

Still dazed from the blow, Carmelita lifted her head so see the gargantuan pit bull striding towards her. Carmelita backpedaled, but PT was too quick, and caught a handful of her shirtfront before she could get away. Using the muscles that had disadvantaged him before, he lifted Carmelita off the ground, arm fully extended. Still somewhat dazed, Carmelita marveled as the corded muscles on his arm stood out like rods. Her eyes traveled up the arm to the face, twisted into an expression of pure hate. Suddenly at this monster’s mercy, Carmelita felt the first faint twinge of fear.

—•—

As Sly watched, horrified, the men holding his friends dug the barrels of their pistols into the temples of the turtle and hippo. They were making no demands that Sly drop his weapon, or back out of the room, or talking at all. They just seemed to enjoy the fact that he could see Bentley and Murray suffering, and could do nothing to stop it. Slowly, the one holding Bentley reached down and grabbed one of the turtle’s hands. Bentley tried to pull it away, but the guard held on too tightly. He worked his grip around until he had the pinky finger pinned between his thumb and forefinger. Still keeping the gun in his other hand trained on the turtle’s head, and watching Sly’s every reaction, the guard squeezed the digit until there was a small crunch.

Bentley screamed in pain, and Sly trembled – on the verge of rushing the room, but the sadistic guard kept him at bay with the threat of the gun. It was like there was an invisible barrier he couldn’t cross, dare not cross for the lives of his friends. His grin twisting even further, the guard released the broken pinky and went to the ring finger.

In a flash, Sly realized that there was one option – slow down time. It was risky, it had been a long time since he had practiced the advanced technique, not since the Clockwerk incident, and he hadn’t been the best at it when he had been at his peak. ‘Slow down time’ was actually a misnomer. Time didn’t slow down, he sped up. It was a state of mind and body that was almost trance-like, and it sped up his actions and reflexes to four, maybe five times that of an ordinary Cooper. It was very risky – dangerous – but what else could he do? The guard had already begun applying pressure to the captured finger.

With a final grit of his teeth, Sly committed himself to the half-formed idea. He took three sharp breaths and let his awareness fold inward. He didn’t have to close his eyes, which would have alerted the guards holding his friends at gunpoint, but the scene became fuzzy as his eyes unfocused. At first he became sharply aware of everything in the room, but it quickly faded away. The sounds of five bodies breathing in one room, the feel of a slight breeze playing his fur, the smell of dust and mold, they all fell away until all Sly knew was his own body. Gradually even that began to leave him, to recede until all that was left was a tiny, sharp pinprick of his mind. He coiled and folded that in on itself, tighter and tighter, smaller and smaller.

The process felt slow to Sly, but actually all of this was happening within a few seconds. That was the secret of the technique: a highly concentrated meditation in an amazingly short period. The speed and level of focus achieved were what created a ‘rubber-band effect’ when Sly’s mind was turned outward again. Only instead of stretching out and snapping back, he was coiling up and snapping out. The after effects always left him tired and with a very localized migraine right between his brows, but Bentley said that that was because he had so little practice – and because he always pushed it too far for an amateur. Well, if ever he needed to push himself, it was now.

—•—

The expression of hate suddenly melted into something more frightening: a leer. PT’s gaze dropped from her face to her body, admiring the curves now that she was helpless to stop him. Carmelita’s gut twisted as his eyes sparkled with glee; she felt dirty just being looked at by him. She began to writhe and kick, aiming for vulnerable spots on PT’s body, but her limbs were too short to reach, and the bulldog only laughed at her. Carmelita clawed at the arm holding her, digging her fingers in, but her gloves prevented her from really getting him with her nails.

PT chuckled some more, then jabbed her in the gut, knocking the wind out of her. She struggled to draw in breath, coughing, eyes watering. Gasping, she realized that PT was reaching for her now, with fingers extended. _He’s going to fondle me_ , she realized. Refusing to bear the humiliation, she resorted to the one weapon left to her, and bit into the hand holding her aloft with a mouth full of sharp fox teeth.

PT grunted, the threatening hand stopped, but the other hand, the one being bitten, refused to let go of the fox. Carmelita bit down harder, tasting the blood that was rushing into her mouth. It was disgusting, but it was the only way to get away. She bit down even harder, grinding her teeth back and forth and jerking her head around.

PT finally let out a strangulated yell of pain, and flung the offending fox into the corner of the room. Carmelita managed to twist around in the air to land on her feet instead of her head, but the landing was still far from soft. Legs stinging and knees protesting, the vixen squatted in the corner, spitting out another mouthful of blood, this one PT’s. She didn’t take the time to wait for the fuzziness to leave her head, but looked back at PT immediately. He was still holding his injured hand, snarling in pain.

Carmelita took the opportunity, and dove for the faint shape she could make out through the shadows. When PT threw her, she had landed near her fallen shock pistol, which she intended to use.

PT saw her dive, and could make out what it was she was going for. He turned and snatched up the vixen’s cane, and began sprinting towards her, bringing the cane up in a tremendous arc to bring down on her skull.

Carmelita was holding the trigger down, building up charge, and praying that her shot would make the giant veer in his course before the blow came.

—•—

Bentley screamed as the second finger snapped. Little bright lights swam in his vision, and he thought he could hear something whistling. The pain was incredible, but it was nothing compared to the agony as the guard holding him began to grind his broken finger around, rubbing the broken bones together, pinching nerves and sending shots of pain all the way up his arm. The turtle moaned and fought to stay conscious. Blackness threatened around the edges of his vision, promising cool unawareness, but he had heard the quick breaths Sly had taken, knew what they meant. The technique would speed him up, but he would still need the help of his friends if they were all going to get out of here. He had to stay awake.

The guard holding him stopped grinding the broken bones together and moved onto the next one, trapping it in his grip and applying the terrible pressure a third time.

Bentley felt a breeze, and there came a grunt from behind him. The pressure that had only begun to be applied to his third finger vanished, as did the feeling of someone sitting behind him, pressing against his shell. Bentley blinked, then snapped his attention to the side, to Murray and his guard. The guard was staring at Bentley, mouth agape, as though the bound turtle had caused his partner’s disappearance. He was just turning his head to check where Sly was when Murray heaved his entire bulk backwards.

The hippo’s thick skull dealt the guard a hard blow to the nose, and the rest of Murray’s bulk simply rolled over the unfortunate captor. The gun fell from the guard’s slackened fingers and landed harmlessly on the ground. Muffled grunting came from beneath Murray, but despite his efforts to keep the guard pinned, there was only so much he could do while still chained up.

The guard rose from the ground just in time to meet the Cooper Clan cane, face to face.

Murray’s lock was open and hit the floor before the last guard. Sly was just coming out of his speed jump when he turned his attention to the turtle.

Carefully, delicately, he lifted Bentley’s arm and hand, examining his friend’s twisted fingers. He knew very little about such things, but even he could tell that the breaks were bad, they would need to be set by a doctor.

Sly looked at Bentley’s face, covered with sweat, pale, and panting. They would need to get to a doctor soon.

Sly tried to smile lightheartedly, “You’re looking greener than usual, Bentley.”

Bentley, to his credit, managed to smile back, “As much as I hate the sensation, that’s a good thing. I’m healthy enough to feel sick.”

“You can explain that one later.” Sly stopped smiling, his ears cam down to his scalp. In a voice barely above a whisper, he said, “I’m sorry, Bentley. For everything.”

“Forget it, Sly. This is just one of the risks of being thieves.”

Sly turned back to Murray, who was shrugging out of his chains. The knife wound on his arm looked red and angry, on the verge of an infection. If it was tended to soon it wouldn’t get any worse, and only Bentley would need a doctor. Murray caught Sly’s look and shook his head. He wouldn’t admit to feeling any pain – especially when Bentley was in such bad shape.

Bentley took a shuddery breath, holding tenaciously to the few threads of consciousness he had left. It would be so easy to just let himself slip into oblivion, to escape the pain, but then he would be dead weight for his friends. They weren’t out of this yet. He had to concentrate on something to keep away the darkness. Finding one major obstacle to their escape, Bentley latched onto it. “What about PT? Where is he?”

Sly was removing Bentley’s bonds, gingerly moving them around his injured hand. In answer to his question, he jerked his head towards the open door, “Carmelita is taking care of him – I should go and help her now that you guys are safe.”

“Carmelita is here?!” Despite his pain, Bentley managed to sit up straight, “Do you have any idea what that might do to her state of mind?!”

“To tell the truth, pal, her state of mind ain’t all that great anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“She saw the shock pistol,” Sly explained quickly, “and now it seems like she’s wavering between crook and cop.”

Murray surprised them both by yelling, “And you left her alone with that steroids poster-boy?! Are you insane?”

Sly gaped at his rotund friend. He hadn’t made much fuss when Carmelita had joined up, but since when had he become a Fox supporter?

Sly’s amazement only soared even further when Murray actually grabbed a handful of his scruff and lifted him off of his feet. Murray had never used his bulk or physical force against him before – it was unnerving. The hippo only held Sly suspended, though, and spoke to Bentley, who was still sitting awkwardly on the ground, “You going to be okay for a minute, pal?”

Bentley nodded wearily. Unconsciousness was looking better and better, and he had no spare energy to argue or object.

Murray, still holding onto Sly by the back of the neck with one hand, took off down the hallway to the main office where Sly had left Carmelita and PT to brawl. Despite Murray’s obvious annoyance, he didn’t swing Sly around as he made his way down the hall, but he didn’t put the raccoon down, either.

At first, Sly couldn’t even tell if they were in the right room. It was silent, there was no movement, and it somehow seemed darker than it had been five minutes ago. Murray, still running, almost tripped over PT’s prone form sprawled on the ground. Around him were the shattered and scattered pieces of the imitation Cooper Clan cane. Splintered fragments of the wooden handle were strewn across the floor, and even the metal hook had been snapped in two. PT himself was covered with bruises and cuts, and his fur looked and smelt as though he had walked through a burning building.

“Whoa,” Murray said, observing their fallen foe, “Carmelita really did a number on him. I guess we really _didn’t_ have to worry.”

Sly stared down at the pit bull from where Murray still held him suspended and let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “I guess she did. He would look better if he had gone through a meat grinder.” Realizing something, Sly looked around, “Where did Carmelita go?”

Murray looked, “Maybe looking for you?”

“No, she knew where I went. We’d better find her.”

“Right.” The hippo carefully lowered Sly to his feet and the two began to search. Murray headed out to explore the building while Sly stayed in the office.

Silently, Sly was cursing himself. This was his fault. It had been his idea to rob PT when Bentley had said they weren’t ready. It had been his idea to party on the town instead of laying low. And it had been his stupid idea to make Carmelita part of their team. Everything he had done in the past week had led the gang from bad to worse. His plans had nearly gotten his friends killed, and who knew what condition Carmelita was in? Her mind had been slowly cracking, fluxing between the policewoman and the thief when he had last seen her. What if the fight with PT had damaged her mind state somehow? What if now, instead of being able to revert completely to her Inspector ego, she would be stuck in this half-way point indefinitely? Or worse, what if…?

It didn’t take long to find Carmelita, but it felt like an eternity to Sly. She was unconscious, but breathing, slumped behind a pile of boxes. From the way she lay, Sly could tell she had been thrown there, but the mass of empty boxes had cushioned her landing. She was breathing deeply, which meant no ribs were broken, at least, and her bruises were fairly minimal. Compared to the beating PT received, she was virtually unscathed.

Again, Sly sighed with relief. At least physically, Carmelita was alright. Gently, so as not to wake her, Sly rearranged her limbs so she didn’t look quite so uncomfortable.

For a while, Sly just watched her, thinking. It was the first time in what seemed like days where it felt like Sly could just think, and not worry too much about anything else. He began to absorb everything that had happened over the past few days. More than Sly’s own bad judgments leading to the near disaster they were in now, he found himself thinking of his time with Carmelita as a thief. She had been an invaluable partner to him – both as a second pair of thieving hands and as an emotional support for Sly. Having her with him made him realize how much he really wanted someone with him, out in the field.

It also made him realize just how inappropriate Carmelita was for that role. Any latent, adolescent fantasies he might have had on that score were now quashed. The two of them couldn’t work together permanently on the same side of the law. Not the way he had tried it at any rate.

Sly didn’t move again until Bentley managed to make his way to the office. The turtle looked Carmelita as well as he could with one hand, and reached the same vague conclusion as Sly: physically fine, (considering), but mentally, who knew?

Sly rubbed the place right between his eyes, where the migraine was already developing. It was hard to tell this early, but it felt as though this one would end up spreading to his ears. He would either have to use that technique a lot more to get used to it or not at all. He was leaning towards not at all.

“What do we do now?” he asked Bentley. Although barely started, the headache combined with his exhaustion was making it hard for him to think.

Bentley shrugged, then flinched at the pain brought on by such a simple movement, “I guess now we pick up the pieces.” He glanced out the window, the one Sly had used as an entrance, “And quickly, before the police start arriving.”

—•—

The first thing was a wailing noise that jabbed at her brain relentlessly, pulling her out of darkness into a gray swirl of nothing. Gradually the gray evolved into shapes: the Interpol building in Paris, an office cluttered with evidence and files, even her childhood home. Eventually her name came floating to the surface: Carmelita Montoya Fox, Inspector for Interpol. Then another name came, close on the heels of her own.

Sly Cooper.

The grayness behind her eyelids shuddered for an instant as she recalled the name. Who was Sly Cooper, and what was he to her? Mentor? Partner? Friend? … No … it didn’t feel quite right. There was something familiar there, but the relationship wasn’t that… congenial. If not friend, than what was he? Enemy? Closer, very near, in fact, but something was still off. Not a friend, not and enemy, what was Sly Cooper?

Before she could adequately define her relationship with this person called ‘Sly Cooper’, she remembered something else: he was a thief. A sneaky, internationally infamous raccoon whom she had chased around the globe for years. And she was a cop. That was it. Cops and robbers. Form defined relationship. Regardless of that singular nagging doubt.

With those two major pieces of her life back in place – her identity and that of her arch… rival, other parts began falling into place. Her badge number, how much change she ever had on her at any given time, her home address, and the thousands of other tiny details that made up the background tapestry of her life.

Now if only that wailing would quit.

Slowly she forced her eyes open, resolving to _make_ whatever was making that sound to stop, and then return to her, if not entirely restful, then comfortable, sleep.

For a second she couldn’t tell the difference between the world behind her lids and the one outside, but eventually she could make out lighter blobs in the darkness. Another sound came to her, slightly deeper and not as constant as the wailing.

“…ector Fox? Ms. Fox? Are you alright?”

The blobs in front of her resolved themselves into a face. Male, young, prairie dog, and wearing a hat that declared him a Las Vegas policeman. Las Vegas?

“Inspector Fox? Are you with us?” The policeman’s concern was obvious, but Carmelita, in her cynicism, had to wonder if it was for her personally, or because he didn’t want to explain an injured Interpol operative on his beat.

She sat up slowly, but her head still felt like it was about to be split down the middle. She held it in both hands and groaned. “I think so, officer. Where are we?”

The officer’s relief at her movement was dispelled by her question. That wasn’t a good thing for anyone not to know. “An old apartment building on the eastern edge of Las Vegas,” he said. Without taking his eyes off of the stirring Inspector, he motioned behind him, “What happened here?”

Carmelita looked. Before her lay the remains of either a small natural disaster or an intense battle. Broken furniture, debris, even part of the outside wall had been blasted away by something, revealing a sky spackled with stars. In the center of the floor was a dark shadow, whose shape she could not place.

The dazed Inspector tried to rise to her feet, but was so unsteady that she had to accept help from the waiting officer. When she came to the formless mass of shadow, she recognized it as an unconscious PT Bull. He looked almost as bad as she felt.

Carmelita fought down a rising feeling of pleasure at the sight of a beaten PT, and tried to think. What was PT Bull doing in Las Vegas? What was _she_ doing in Las Vegas? Last thing she remembered, Cooper had ripped off PT, leaving the blues and Interpol the knot of which criminal to bust. Then… someone had found out that Cooper and his gang had run to…

Las Vegas. Huh.

The officer waiting nearby watched her face closely. Half because he wanted to be ready if the Interpol woman was overcome and needed further support, and half to look for any clues her expression might give away. “Inspector Fox?”

Carmelita shook her head, trying to dislodge the cobwebs, but for some reason, she couldn’t remember anything after she chased Sly into the _Atlantis_ on the strip. “I’m not sure myself, officer,” she said slowly, “I think I may have been hit on the head. What’s your take on the situation?”

The officer shrugged and motioned behind him, where Carmelita now saw several more officers sifting through the debris, taking pictures, and basically working the scene. “All we can come up with,” he said, “is either you and this… gentleman were fighting together against a common enemy and lost, or you were fighting each other and you won. Barely,” he added, taking her condition into account, but the Inspector hardly seemed to notice. “Do you know anything about this man, Inspector?”

Carmelita nodded and started to explain the situation as far as she could recall it to the officer, when another cop by a desk called out. “Hey, Baily! We got something over here!”

The officer Carmelita was talking to looked over, stopping Carmelita midstream. Apparently, he was Baily. “I’m sorry, Inspector,” he apologized, “but it might be important. Please come with me, it might jog your memory.”

Carmelita nodded her agreement and walked with him to the desk. On the desk was a high quality laptop computer, its screen very slightly raised so a thin sliver of light escaped.

“What do we have, Fog?” Baily asked.

Fog, another prairie dog, smirked, “Well, it hardly fits with the décor, B. I think this might help us unravel out little mystery tonight.” Fog nodded to Carmelita almost as an afterthought, “Your hat is slipping, ma’am.”

Carmelita’s hand went to her head, “Hat?”

The two cops ignored the Inspector as she turned over what was undoubtedly Sly Cooper’s blue felt in her hands. What was Cooper’s hat doing on her head? Where was Cooper? What the hell had been going on that she could no longer remember?

Unnoticed, the two blues lifted the computer screen. Fog grunted, “A raccoon face? Does this mean anything to you, Inspector Fox?”

Carmelita drug her eyes away from the hat and looked at the screen. She snatched the blue calling card taped there almost before she realized what it was. Written on the card, in a familiar swirling hand, was:

_Thanks for the_

_memories._

_This is all you’ll_

_ever need._

_~Sly C._

A quick scan of the computer screen told what the card hinted at. Everything Interpol would ever need to hang PT. Whatever had happened that she couldn’t remember, it must have been a good day.


End file.
